The Auctioneer

by Joan Samson

  “Balloons!” cried Hildie, jumping ahead of the others as they walked slowly toward the auction.

  There was only a smattering of Harlowe people among the summer people and strangers—little girls in pink shorts and jerseys and new sneakers covered with stars, boys in crisp new jeans sporting bright cap pistols, lean couples in baggy clothes, fat ladies with jangling bracelets, and a few serious antique dealers in dark jackets.

  “Please, Papa, please,” Hildie cried. “I need a balloon.”

  It was Mudgett selling the balloons. John followed Hildie and gave up the thirty cents. He made no mention of the fact that Mudgett had been gone for nearly twenty years.

  “Be very careful now,” Mudgett warned. “If you let go, the balloon will float right up into the sky and disappear just like a bad child.”

  Flat on his hip lay a neat black leather holster like the one Gore wore when he answered trouble calls. “You need a pistol to sell balloons, Red?” asked John.

  “Never can tell,” said Mudgett and straightened up without a smile, his dark eyes dull as charcoal, his once red hair long since tarnished to brown like neglected copper.

  John shook his head as they walked toward the chairs to settle Ma. “Red always had that way,” he said. “When he was in school, he just had to look at you to set you squirmin’ without half knowin’ why.”

  Mim helped Ma into a chair and hooked her canes over the rungs beneath her.

  “Like quicksilver with the Bible verses, that boy,” Ma said. “One look and he could rattle them off better’n the preacher. In the preacher’s way too—so close it made your flesh crawl. Oh, he was wicked fresh.”

  “You still got it in for him ’cause you caught him takin’ off on you that time,” John said, grinning.

  Ma shook her head. “Some boy he was. Too big for his britches even then. He was settin’ up to get out of Harlowe before he was half growed.”

  “Guess he found out the rest of the world’s no different,” John said. “Don’t know of anyone glad to see him back.”

  “Fanny says that girl he married’s from Manchester, and she’s showin’ already,” Mim said.

  “Him a father,” John said, his foot up on the chair in front of Ma, his elbow on his knee. “God help the child. He used to have this dog. Remember, Ma? One of them black-and-white spotted hounds. He wanted that dog to be a killer. Tried and tried to make him mean. But nothin’ would do. The dog just put his tail between his legs and shivered. At school we’d all stand around, our eyes buggin’ out to watch Red punish the beast. Once in winter, he lowered the dog into the well. And once he dragged him up to the roof of the schoolhouse and let him slide down and fall. He finally killed him feedin’ him broken glass. He pulled the dog the whole way to school in a wagon so we could all see him vomit blood.”

  “Well, I know other men was fresh when they was boys,” Ma said. “A baby may soften him up some. I know someone turned soft as a grape.” Her eyes darted here and there in queer contrast with her slow body. “Now you young people get over there and take a look at what’s for sale,” she said. “I see a bed frame looks quite fancy.”

  So John and Mim and Hildie moved toward the bandstand and wandered among the things set out for sale.

  “A heap of barns gettin’ cleaned this year,” John said.

  “Why do you suppose anyone’d put this out to the barn? Mim asked, running her hand down the cornerpost of the fine spool bed Ma had spotted. It was beautifully oiled and finished. “This is a darn sight better than what I call rummage.”

  Hildie found a cast-off red wagon and arranged her sturdy self in it. She ran her hand lovingly around its rusted rim. “Not even one little thing?” She pleaded, for her parents had warned her they would not buy her anything.

  “Might not go for much,” Mim said.

  “We’ll see,” John said, heading back toward Ma.

  Hildie followed, pulling the wagon behind her. Then she set herself to kneeling in it, sitting in it, trying out the handle and all the wheels, her green balloon bobbing overhead.

  A ripple of attention passed through the crowd. On the porch of the old Fawkes place stood the auctioneer. He was as tall as Gore, but trim and upright. Despite his red plaid shirt open at the neck, there was something sharply formal about his stance which set him apart from the country Saturday slackness of the people waiting for him. His features were fine and tense and his skin was burned almost as brown as his hair. He stood looking out over the crowd, his hands in his pockets. Directly over his head, elaborate carved fretwork hung from the eaves, laced in and out with thick brown stalks of wisteria. Above the porch was the central window, and higher still, at the peak of the roof, a weather vane with a lynx turning restlessly in a light breeze beneath a pointed lightning rod. At the auctioneer’s heel sat a young golden retriever, the tip of her tail moving in tentative friendliness as she waited to walk with him into the crowd.

  Finally, a half smile of welcome on his lips, the auctioneer moved down his front steps, across the road, and into the crowd between his house and the bandstand.

  The people were beginning to fill in the seats and to settle themselves for the auction. They opened a way before Dunsmore, and he paused to nod and shake hands with everyone from Harlowe.

  When he reached the Moores, he stopped and looked at them. “The Moores, perhaps?” he said. “From up on Constance Hill?”

  John looked at Mim.

  “Lord sake,” Ma cried. “How’d you know that?”

  The auctioneer threw back his head and laughed. “I’ve been hoping you d come. You folks do keep to yourselves. I’ve met almost everyone else by now. And I’ve heard about Hildie’s corn-silk hair.” He reached out and placed a broad palm on Hildie’s head.

  Hildie stood with her mouth open and allowed herself to be caressed.

  The auctioneer stepped back and put his hands on his hips.

  “Do you like that red wagon, little lady?” he asked.

  Hildie clapped her thumb into her mouth and lifted trusting blue eyes to the auctioneer in assent.

  “Now there’s a lady knows her own mind,” he said to Mim with a broad smile, his dark eye catching momentarily on her face. “Now, Hildie. If you’ll just give up that precious wagon. Oh, only for a minute or two, don’t worry. I’ll kick off the whole shebang with your little wagon. That way your daddy can buy it for you right off.”

  But instead of letting go, Hildie plumped her bottom firmly into the bed of the wagon and hung on.

  “Now, Hildie, I’m a man of sterling honor, can’t you tell?” he asked.

  Hildie caught her bottom lip in a shy smile.

  He lifted her out of the wagon, kissing her on the forehead as he set her down next to Mim.

  He held out his hand to John. John, caught off guard, paused for an awkward second, then shook hands. “So glad to meet you folks at last,” said the auctioneer.

  “We’ve heard it’s quite a show,” John mumbled.

  Then the auctioneer picked up the rusty wagon and carried it off with him. The dog turned to follow. Hildie watched for a second, then turned and headed off herself after the auctioneer, the dog, and the precious wagon.

  “Hildie,” John called sharply, but the child didn’t turn.

  “Let her be,” Ma said. “What harm can come to her in Harlowe?”

  Perly Dunsmore climbed up the stairs onto the bandstand and rapped his gavel on the wooden railing. Hildie followed him up. He paused and lifted her high onto a bureau behind him where she stuck her thumb back into her mouth and kept a sharp eye on her wagon. The dog lay down at his feet.

  Mim turned to John with a grin, but he tipped back in his chair with annoyance.

  “This little girl here is Hildie Moore,” said Dunsmore, his words lengthening into a drawl, and his air of distance dissolving so completely that the lines of his face seemed literally to rearrange themselves. The deep timbre of his voice took on a burly quality, and he was transformed before their eyes int
o someone who was clearly born to be an auctioneer.

  “Now Hildie Moore is a very special pal of mine,” he went on, and she’s picked out this fine little magical chariot here to kick off the bidding at this auction—on this most sensational cotton-picking high falutin lollapalooza of a Saturday auction Harlowe’s seen yet. Now, what am I offered for this all-American humdinger of a wagon, the dream of every big-eyed thumb-sucking whipper-snapper this side of Powlton?”

  Hildie blushed. She took her thumb out of her mouth and sat on her hand for safekeeping. On Perly Dunsmore’s left, Gore held up the wagon for everyone to see.

  “Fifty cents,” John called.

  “Fifty, fifty. Do I hear a big round shiny silver dollar?” Perly’s voice gained momentum like metal wheels rolling over the joints in a railroad track.

  A young woman in shorts and a halter stood at the edge of the crowd with a little boy in a white sailor suit. “Seventy-five,” she said.

  “Seventy-five, seventy-five. Come on, folks. Let’s not be scrimy. Remember this is for the little ones. Where’s that big round shiny silver dollar?”

  John raised a hand.

  “Dollar, dollar. Do I hear a dollar and a quarter?” chanted the auctioneer.

  The woman nodded, and her little boy jumped on the end of her hand.

  “Yes sirree, this is more like it. A little elbow grease on this gilt-edged rust, a little spit and polish on the squeaky wheels, a little muscle power on this bent axle right here, and this little old chariot here’ll be fit for a gladiator. And now I’d like to hear a couple of big round shiny silver dollars and then I’ll hand the lucky winner keys and registration, bill of sale and license plates. Who knows, folks, where the rusty wheels will take you.”

  “Dollar and a half,” called John.

  Dollar and a half. Dollar and a half. Do I hear two? Going, going, going, gone. For a dollar and a half to the prettiest little lassie I’ve had my hands on in many a day. Perly caught up Hildie from her perch behind him and swung her high over his head for everyone to see, then handed her over the railing to Mudgett who swooped her down and settled her in the small rusted wagon.

  A teenaged boy with hair almost to his shoulders pulled the wagon down the grassy aisle to where the Moores were sitting, and John paid him. “You Jimmy Ward’s boy?” John asked.

  The boy nodded.

  “All you kids got those freckles just like your pa,” said Ma. “I’d know a Ward a mile away.”

  “Dad’s a deputy, I hear,” John said. “Always get a turnout like this?”

  “Nope,” said the boy. “But now they’re puttin’ notices in all the papers. Even the Boston papers.” He grinned and shook his head in the direction of the bandstand. He always carries on like that. Guess that’s the main thing brings them out.”

  “An old-time Yankee auction,” Perly was saying-his body swaying in a strange stillness, his words flying out over the crowd with a life all their own-“is the crossroads of America. An old-time Yankee auction is where the best of the old meets the best of the new. It’s where recycling meets up with the old saying, Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without. It’s where the best of the old-timers meet the best of the newcomers. You’ve got people on your right and people on your left. You’ve all got things to offer, and I sincerely hope that this here seventh old-time Harlowe auction will help you get together.

  “Now I have here a piece of genuine Americana. An old-fashioned beautifully worked hand-cranked milk separator.” Mudgett lifted the heavy separator and balanced it precariously on the railing of the bandstand while Perly showed it off. “Look at that pewter fancywork, at the quality of the porcelain in the bowl. Nowadays, they don’t bother to make machines beautiful to look at. But there was a time when they cared about the boy who had to stand there and crank, so they decorated the separator with leaves and flowers to rest his eyes and calm his soul.

  “Never mind the malarkey, Perly,” called Sam Parry from just behind the Moores. At seventy, Sam was white-haired but still hale. His age showed only in that, since his children had left home, he found it harder with every passing year to hold his tongue. “Does the blamed thing work?”

  “Like a charm,” Perly said. “In those days they made machines to last. He turned the crank. “Perfect working order. Look at this.”

  “Sounds a bit squeaky,” Sam said. “How do I know the innards are workin?”

  “Because I say so,” Perly said. “And my word’s as good as the fact, though if you’re nervous I’ll write you out an ironclad guarantee. This machine’s been running for a heap of years, and it’s probably got a longer journey yet to go than most of us.”

  Sam bid a dollar, muttering to his wife and anyone else who might be listening, “That Sears electric thing I got from Paul Geness is no damn good.”

  “Serves you right,” said his wife. “You know he gets that stuff from the dump.”

  A dollar! Perly laughed. He shrugged his shoulders. “Course we have to start somewhere, but this is a genuine antique worth at least a hundred. Now I want you all to consider what a conversation piece this would make in your playroom or your dining area. Teach your children the centrifugal principles. Teach them how they did things in the olden days. And you can rest assured that no one else you know will have one like it. There probably aren’t a dozen machines like this one extant in all the vast stretches of America.”

  “Ten dollars,” bid a small woman wearing a tight minidress and a glossy high-piled hairdo of dark curls.

  Perly spotted her in the crowd and spoke directly to her. “This is a piece that will stop people in their tracks. Picture it mounted next to your basement bar. Entertain your company by cranking punch out of it. Yes, ma’am, you can’t go wrong on this. I have ten now, I have ten. Do I hear fifteen?”

  Eleven, Sam called. “If you’re so sure the blessed thing works, why you sellin’ it for a conversation piece?” He went on mumbling.

  “Holy smokes. A conversation piece. What kind of fool needs a conversation piece. If talk don’t come natural, why bother?

  “Never your problem,” commented his wife.

  “Eleven. Eleven,” Perly was intoning. “Now remember an antique like this will just keep right on growing in value as time goes on. What’s more, it’s still working, so if times get hard, you can always buy a cow and separate your own milk.

  “Tarnation,” Sam said. “I already got cows.

  “I have eleven. Do I hear fifteen?”

  Perly kept an eye on the woman with the curls, but from the chairs on the other side of the aisle, a man in a blue seersucker jacket raised his pipe to signal fifteen.

  “Fifteen, fifteen. Do I hear twenty?”

  “Sixteen,” Sam called loud and clear, “and robbery at that.”

  “Sixteen, do I hear twenty?”

  The woman with the curls nodded to the twenty.

  “Twenty, twenty. Do I hear twenty-five?”

  The man gave him the twenty-five, and the woman went up to twenty-six. The man countered with twenty-seven, and there was a pause.

  “Twenty-seven, twenty-seven,” Perly cried, “and a bargain at twice the price. Who’ll give me thirty?”

  The woman with the curls nodded.

  Perly turned to the man again. “Thirty, thirty, give me thirty-five and you’ll have something you can pass on to your children’s children.”

  But the man shook his head.

  “Sold,” shouted Perly. “For thirty dollars, to the little woman who knows a bargain when she sees one.”

  “Who don’t know when she’s been had,” growled Sam to no one in particular.

  “And now, folks, hold your horses,” called the auctioneer. “There’s one more brave old American custom that an auction helps to keep alive. Americans have always jumped at their chances where they found them and that’s what keeps their blood flowing stronger and quicker than any other blood. I’ve been in forty countries and I know it’s true. Americans have never been
afraid to risk their money where their hearts are, and that’s why we’re the richest country in the world. Now I’ve got something here that just might pay big dividends. I’ve got three surprise boxes here and each and every one of you is going to get a chance to bid. Here’s your double or nothing bid. You never know. I heard of a man once bought a strongbox for forty dollars and when he pried it open it had seventy-five thousand dollars in it. Seventy-five thousand dollars that the judge ruled his by law. It could happen to anyone-to me, to you. So what am I offered for this Campbell soup carton filled with surprises? A thimble, a screwdriver, a bundle of quilting squares, a pair of long johns— who knows? Maybe a gold nugget. Fifty cents, fifty cents. Let me hear a dollar... .”

  The Thursday after the auction, the Moores were up in the garden setting out tomatoes and onions and planting beans.

  “I figure there’s about two good boxes of old tools down there still and then that’ll be about it with us and the auctions,” John said.

  “I don’t know,” Mim said, leaning back on her heels and pushing her wispy brown curls out of her face. “We could start on the attic. Make a clean sweep while we’re at it.”

  “Got to save somethin’ for another year,” John said.

  “Another year,” Mim said. “Someone or other’s been savin’ that rummage for another year since longer than Ma can remember. We can get somethin’ for it if we let it go now.”

  John was using a crowbar to sink the stakes for the tomatoes and beans. Now he pried out a rock the size of his head and heaved it off to one side.

  “Save it,” Mim went on, “and Hildie’s children’s children will be sniffin’ through there every rainy day just like you did as a boy. Beaver traps and broken mirrors. That’s no place for kids, and Hildie’s already jumpin to be up there every chance she gets.” Gradually they recognized the sound of a motor approaching. They stood up to see who it was before they committed themselves to walk down the field. In summer, curious people drove the back roads just to see what was at the end of them. They would turn around in the Moores’ dooryard. Ma would peer out her window. Hildie would stare from the shadow of the barn. And the sightseers would gaze soberly back as though what they saw were as insensible as the black-and-white images of a television documentary.